


Cheesiness is Underrated

by ChloeWeird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Food, Future Fic, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Slash, Steter Writers Appreciation Week, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 07:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10589298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: Every month, a dish with pink flowers on it sits, untouched, on the Pack Potluck table. Peter's dish, filled with some mysterious food which no one has had the guts to try. Really, it's a miracle Stiles never caved sooner.





	

Stiles groaned and flopped back on the couch, rubbing his full belly. The potluck had had a great turnout, and for once, there wasn't a weak link on the food table. Isaac had experienced enough spectacular fails that he'd accepted his lot in life as a terrible cook and brought a platter of cheeses.  _ Good _ cheeses; mellow, squishy ones, pungent, firm ones, herby ones, tart ones. All accompanied by a selection of crackers that were light and fluffy, or dense and crunchy, and everything in between. Stiles was spoiled for choice. 

Scott--who had passable skill in the kitchen--had nevertheless convinced his mother to make a huge pan of homemade meatballs. They were nothing like the soft, gross frozen ones with too-sweet barbecue sauce drowning the lack of flavour.

Even Stiles himself, who, despite his best efforts, could never produce anything that lived up to his high culinary standards, had gone simple and store-bought with a brownie box mix. Less chance of disappointing himself and his friends by planning grand things and not being able to deliver. 

He was  _ so full _ . Not Chinese buffet full, or thanksgiving dinner full, but getting there. He was on the edge of the kind of discomfort that would make all the delicious food he'd had no longer worth it. But not quite. At this point, it was totally worth it. 

He moaned again and reached for the button on his jeans, glancing around subtly to see if anyone was around him to see him let it all hang out. Most of them were either still eating--Stiles tried not to be jealous--or involved in their own conversations. 

Except for Peter. Peter met his eyes and raised a brow, his gaze flicking to Stiles' fingers. Stiles twitched them away from his fly like they were on fire and scowled at Peter, who only smirked like he always did when he met Stiles' eyes: With a spark of some in-joke Peter thought they had but that Stiles had yet to fully comprehend. And with heat. Just a touch, but enough to make Stiles look away and his internal temperature to rise by a few degrees. 

He looked away now, his eyes locking onto the table with its considerable number of serving dishes and wide, plastic platters, most of them still half full. Erica's garlic knots really had been amazing, with just the right amount of butter to make them rich, but not soggy. Despite his full stomach, his mouth started watering again. He rubbed his belly, jostling the food he'd already consumed with gusto. Could he fit one more garlic knot in there? Just a little one, to get the taste of parsley and yeasty bread in his mouth?

He sighed and stood up, knowing even as he waddled over to the table that it was a bad idea. In a few more bites, he was going to tip over the edge from satisfying, lethargic fullness, to real, nauseous discomfort. 

But the garlic knots. So good. 

He popped one in his mouth and chewed, enjoying the burst of buttery, garlicky goodness, but he resisted licking his fingers. When he'd swallowed the last of it, he looked down at table mournfully, wishing he could turn back time, if only to tell himself not to take so much caesar salad, since he could have that any old time. What he really should have focussed on were the garlic knots. And the meatballs. And the cheeeeeeeeeese. 

His eyes roved over the table, devouring everything for a second time, with only his gaze. (Except the deviled eggs. They were Lydia's go-to appetizer, but nothing she did to them could make egg white anything but nasty to Stiles. Thankfully, she always brought a second item, or Stiles would be forced to remonstrate.)

His stare fell on a shallow, rectangular dish that'd been shoved to the edge of the table. It stood at least 10 inches away from everything else, despite the cramped space, covered with tinfoil and looking completely innocuous. 

A likely story. 

Until he lifted the foil, he'd have no idea what it was, but he definitely knew who brought it because it'd been left in the signature pale pink rose-covered corning ware dish. It was actually a really pretty container--part of a set, which they'd probably seen the entirety of without ever lifting the tin foil, or cling wrap or clear glass lid, whichever it'd come with. It wasn't the sort of dish that Stiles would've thought Peter Hale would own, but that didn't change the fact that Peter came bearing one of the flower-decorated dishes every single month. And none of the pack--not a single one of them--had ever actually tried whatever it was that he brought. 

It'd started out as a reasonable precaution for the pack to take. When they'd finally gotten Beacon Hills' shit sorted out, they weren't willing to throw it all away because they'd put their trust in the wrong bread pudding. After all the shit Peter had pulled over the years, he'd had a lot of making up to do, and until he'd really shown his willingness to be a normal person--no bloodshed--for the rest of his life, he couldn't be trusted not to poison everyone in the pack in a single bite of green bean casserole. 

It'd been years since they'd feared for their lives around Peter. He really had gone back to being a normal beta. Or as normal as Peter could get, while still staying true to his inner self, which meant he was still creepy, still irreverent and still a little on the grey scale, morally. All of these traits were forgivable since two of them were shared by Stiles himself.

None of them  _ actually _ thought Peter would try to kill them. Even if he did get the idea into his head--which was ludicrous, since he was perfectly aware that any plan to overthrow his pack would involve way too much risk for too little payoff--he would never be so plebeian as to give them all the world's worst wolfsbane stomach aches. To  _ death _ . 

Somehow, even while knowing whatever was in the pink and white dish was perfectly safe, no one ever wanted to be the first person to try it. It became a habit to sequester it at the end of the table or shove it under an extra bag of chips for the taco dip. Just like Derek bringing the drinks and the cutlery was a well-established tradition--because no one else would remember, and he always ended up being the one to run to the convenience store for something better than water or warm cans of root beer from the back of the pantry--so was ignoring Peter's offering. 

Perhaps if everything else on the table that week had been a more normal, mediocre turnout, Stiles wouldn't have been tempted to lift the tin foil lid. As it was, it seemed like an insult to the rest of the table to leave it untasted. They were on such a streak! No one had winced and shoved a soggy pasta salad to the side of their plate, or mushed around a pile of spicy curry around their plate so it looked like it'd been eaten. What if Peter's food was the combo-breaker and they hadn't even known it? 

And even more interesting...what if he'd been bringing up the overall quality of their potlucks for ages, and they just hadn't known it? 

Stiles was a completionist. It didn't matter how much he wished for a second spoonful of chocolate pudding for dessert, he had to try  _ everything _ instead. Really, it was amazing that he'd managed to hold off for so long. Today, though, he'd reached his limit. No more ignoring the rose-patterned dish. He was going to do this. 

He looked around him again to see if anyone had started paying attention to him. They'd all paired off, as usual. Even Peter was busy with his one true love: His phone, which he tapped away at incessantly, though no one could figure out what he was doing. (Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that he was reading on it because that was the other thing Peter could be counted on to do. Stiles' theory was that Peter read the books that were impressive and intimidating in paper format, but the ones he actually enjoyed in the epub version. He'd never had his theory tested, but he'd continue believing it until someone proved Peter was just at a really high level of Candy Crush.

Gingerly, he lifted up a corner of the tin foil and a puff of warm, moist air tickled his fingers. Not a salad then. He peeled it back to about halfway and leaned closer to see what he'd revealed. It was difficult to make out, but he definitely saw cheese and a layer of golden brown breadcrumbs over a lumpy mass. It could've been anything, really. Lots of things had cheese on them. 

He snagged a plastic spoon from the cardboard box of them and cautiously pierced it through the thick layer of cheese to the softness underneath. After pulling out a carefully excavated bite-sized portion, he was able to identify what the breadcrumbs were disguising: Pasta. Specifically, macaroni noodles. Peter had brought mac and cheese in his pink and white dish. 

_ Huh _ , Stiles thought, contemplating the steaming bite on his spoon. He wouldn't have pegged Peter as the type to enjoy such a classic comfort food staple, but then again, he didn't really know Peter that well. No one did. Derek had a bit of a leg up, but he said that even before the fire, no one had been able to predict anything Peter did. Before the fire, that had had way fewer bad connotations, but it remained a fact.

The rich, cheesy smell had intensified, so Stiles put off any more musing and shoved the spoon into his mouth. The moment he did, he accidentally locked eyes with Peter, who'd finally looked up from his phone and was staring at Stiles with a sharp slash of a smile and glittering, laughing eyes. Stiles would have scowled back at him for being weird again, but in the next second, he finally tasted what he'd put in his mouth. 

Stiles' long, loud moan cut through the murmuring conversations around him, stopping everyone in their tracks.   
Stiles blushed under their surprised gazes and mumbled, "Sorry," around his mouthful. He didn't pay them much attention, though, because he was too busy achieving nirvana. 

The taste of the mac and cheese burst across his tongue in an explosion of buttery, creamy ecstasy. There was bacon and the sweet tang of caramelized onions. The soft, smooth, cheesy pasta combined with the crunchy, peppery bread crumbs was…

He swallowed and moaned again, quieter this time. His spoon was digging into the bowl again without him even thinking about, and without a care about double dipping. No one else was eating this stuff, which was a  _ crime _ , but who was he to not take advantage of it?

The second bite was just as good as the first, if not better. He savoured it, closing his eyes and rolling the flavour around his mouth for as long as possible. 

"Boy, am I happy to have finally been the one to put that look on your face."

Stiles opened his eyes reluctantly and focused on Peter's smirking face. 

"You know what?" Stiles said, holding up the spoon between them. "I'm not even going to complain about your inability to rein in your lecherousness. Where did you get this recipe?"

Peter shrugged, his face carefully neutral. "No recipe. I played around with it for a while until I was happy. You like it?"

Stiles let out a strangled laugh. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

Peter's eyes narrowed and he looked genuinely perplexed. "Wrong? I don't really--"

"Why did I not know that you could cook like this?" Stiles demanded. "'Like it?' I want to marry it. Right now. This mac and cheese and I are living in sin, starting tonight. Expect the invitations in the mail by the end of the week. And just so you know, the mac and cheese and I decided not to wait until marriage."

Peter's eyebrows popped up. "Dear me. I'm too late to save its virtue, then?"

Stiles shook his head, waving the spoon in Peter's face. "Way too late. This pasta was filthy way before I got there. I'm just helping it on the road to perdition, but is it seriously sinful."  He paused, frowning at the words that'd come out of his mouth. "I think this metaphor might have gotten away from me a bit."

"Perhaps a tad," Peter agreed.

"It doesn't matter. This?" Stiles pointed aggressively at the steaming pasta, his mouth watering again at the sight of it. "It is fucking delicious. So I'll ask again, and this time, it isn't rhetorical. Why didn't I know you could cook something so amazing?"

Peter tilted his head, considering his answer. "You never asked. And you never bothered to assess the evidence laid in front of you. I brought that same mac and cheese at least three times before this. It freezes well, so every time it went untouched, I'd at least have the leftovers to keep me warm at night."

Stiles winced, cursing himself for squandering his opportunities, and not missing the tiny flash of genuine hurt that passed over Peter's face. "Yeah, big mistake on my part."

"Clearly."

"You really just made this recipe up?" Stiles pushed. "The onions are a brilliant addition. Was that your idea?"

"I tried something like that in a restaurant, then put my own spin on it. I can't take all the credit." 

Peter had unknowingly stumbled across the crux of Stiles' problem when it came to cooking. He had a tendency to put his own "spin" on things, which always seemed to turn out disastrously. One extra dash of seasoning always turned into five or ten, which made whatever he was cooking taste overwhelmingly like that seasoning. Or he'd think to himself, 'there's no such thing as too much butter, right?' And it turned out there is such a thing. Then, the times he managed to restrain himself and follow the recipe exactly, whatever he cooked ended up tasting just...lifeless. Like the flavour didn't have the love that was supposed to be added along with the salt and pepper. Stiles had plenty of love for food. He just didn't have any natural talent. 

So he had to content himself with watching recipe videos on YouTube and enjoying the culinary delights of the take-out places Beacon Hills had to offer, which weren't  _ bad _ , necessarily. But none of them were running for a Michelin star. 

"I can't believe this," Stiles said, shoving past Peter for another spoonful of macaroni, despite his protesting stomach. "I honestly can't believe you would do this to me."

"Do what?" Scott said, approaching the two of them with a suspicious frown.

"Mnut emme 'oh fee--" Stiles mumbled around a huge mouthful.

"Not let him know I can cook passably well," Peter translated. 

"Passably well!" Stiles squawked as soon as he'd swallowed. " _ Passably _ \--Here, Scott, try this." 

Scott opened his mouth trustingly and Stiles fed him a bite--a little more forcefully than necessary. "That's pretty good," Scott said after he'd chewed thoughtfully for a few moments.

" _ Pretty good _ ," Stiles said, incredulously.  He stuck his spoon into Scott's chest, not even sorry about the smudge of grease he'd left there. "This is not just pretty good, it's a masterpiece of cheese and carbs and pig!"

Scott lifted a shoulder. "You know I'm not as into food as you are. I'm happy with the stuff from a box."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah. I'm no snob, I like the boxed stuff too. But this is on another level, Scott!"

"Uh huh. Like I said, pretty good."

Stiles shook his head, crossing his arms reproachfully. "You uncultured swine. I wish I could make you regurgitate the bite I just wasted on you. You do not deserve it."

"Whatever, Stiles," Scott plucked the last chicken wing from the bottom of the bowl and wandered toward the couch. "Enjoy. Don't get assassinated."

"I'm not important enough for assassination," he pointed out. "If Peter decided to poison me, it would be merely homicide."

Peter snorted and Stiles suddenly remembered that he was still there. "I think you're undervaluing yourself."

"Gee, thanks," Stiles said. He looked down at the mac and cheese. "Ugh, I want to eat three bowls of this, but I'm going to throw up if I have any more."

"Tragic." 

"Can I…" Stiles reached out a and hooked a finger over the edge of the dish, dragging it across the tablecloth by a few inches. "Take it?"

Peter's lips twitched, like he was holding back hysterical laughter. "Sure. Bring the container back when you're finished."

Stiles did a small happy dance, then composed himself before he took someone's eye out. "Thanks. I can guarantee it won't be long. I'll be eating this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it's gone."

"Well, thank god for that," Peter drawled. "To be honest, I'm a little sick of the stuff. It's the easiest thing to bring to a pack meeting, but there's only so many times I can eat a whole pan of it without wanting to just give it up and throw it away."

Stiles frowned.  "Why'd you make so much of it, then?"

Peter looked at Stiles, obviously perplexed. "It's a pack meeting. You bring enough food to feed everyone fairly or you don't come at all. I thought you knew that."

"But no one ever…" Stiles trailed off. Not a single pack member--not even Derek who must have known how good a cook Peter was--had bothered to eat what Peter had brought.

Peter stole Stiles' spoon and gestured with it himself. "Ah, but they might have. Like you just did. And if they had, I didn't want to be caught without a sufficient amount. Some people might think I don't appreciate this pack."  

Stiles smiled at the false sarcasm in Peter's tone. Stiles still wondered sometimes, after everything Peter had done, if he really had settled into his role as Scott's beta. Then, other times, it was as clear as the meticulously groomed beard on Peter's face.

"I'm leaving now," Stiles announced. "I'm taking the mac and cheese with me, and no one is going to stop me." His voice rose in volume as he grabbed the dish and headed for the door, grunting from the effort of moving.  

"No one's  _ trying _ to stop you, Stiles," someone called.

"I hope you and the mac and cheese have a long and fulfilling relationship," Peter said. "But if it doesn't satisfy you, you know where to find me."

Stiles opened the door with his back, since his hands were full, and as a result, he made eye contact with Peter again just as Peter's smirk softened and changed from teasing to truthfully wanting. Seven out of ten times,  when Peter bantered with him like this, Stiles rolled his eyes or called Peter a creeper. Peter was mostly harmless, and his flirtations had never crossed a line. 

But those other three times…

The other times, he didn't look away from the naked interest in Peter's eyes. He didn't always mind how unabashed Peter was in his attraction to Stiles. It was nice, sometimes, and a hell of a confidence boost. Most of the time, he just got embarrassed, but he never seriously asked Peter to stop, because it massaged his ego in all the right places that someone as objectively attractive as Peter Hale would want him. 

He'd even thought about pursuing it, once or twice, but something had always held him back. Probably the history of murder and violence. That was a pretty good reason. But lately, it'd been a little more difficult to remember why that was such a big deal, which made him sound like a serial killer, even in his own mind.

_ Works in progress _ , Peter called them both. Stiles grinned as he backed out through the door.   

**Author's Note:**

> AAaaaaaah I don't know why I wrote this. Whatever, hope you enjoyed it I guess? I don't think I like it. I just managed to make myself hungry...


End file.
